"And if I stayed," she said, suddenly mutinous, alluring.
"If you stayed," he whispered, then grew grave. "Could two people not make a world for themselves, Estelle, and be happy in it alone?"
She held sweet fruit to her aching mind, then broke through to the hard kernel of the truth.
"No, for we are never alone," she said gently. "That is the weariness of it. There are no two who strive to make this world who do not draw others inside the hedge of their secret orchard."
His hand fell on hers softly.
"Then, since there is no future, I'll have to-day," he said sharply. "We'll dine and do a theatre, Estelle, and sup recklessly in some quiet place."
What theatre? Bertie had a paper in his pocket; they bent over it.
"This new thing—Spring," he said.
"It's advanced, isn't it?" she asked.
"It's very much so, they say. Miss Prude! But I am not in the mood for flounced virtue set in Scotch, nor for all the solid worth which the fashion follows. The music's lovely. I hear the piece floats through a pale green wood, and over primroses and daffodils, away to a sapphire sea."